


Storytelling

by Thistlerose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, M/M, Missing Scene, Sexual Content, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:25:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in 2004.  Stuck in Number 12 Grimmauld Place, Sirius seeks a distraction in Remus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storytelling

The snow that began falling yesterday evening tapers off around noon, leaving the houses of Grimmauld Place, including Number Twelve, transformed. On the outside, at least.

On the inside of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, nothing has changed. Sirius Black, who has been hunched over his writing desk since he found himself unable to get back to sleep six hours ago, glances out the window from time to time, but barely takes in what he sees. If a whirlwind picked up this house and set it down on a tropical island or atop a mountain in the Himalayas, so long as Sirius was forced to remain inside, he would not care. 

The fishpond in which Kreacher drowned the puppy eight-year-old Sirius brought home from Hyde Park, and in which Sirius’s cousin Bellatrix once tried to drown _him_ , is covered completely. The yew tree, which grows by Sirius’s window and is nearly taller than the house itself, is laden with snow; its branches droop under their burden and knife-sharp icicles cling to their undersides. Ginny Weasley hung a birdfeeder from one of the branches this past summer, but though Sirius filled it with sunflower seeds and breadcrumbs, no birds or squirrels have come to it. Christmas lights glow red and green on the houses on either side of Number Twelve; they cast pools of color onto the snow. Everything on this side of the wrought iron fence, however, is black and white. 

Sirius is aware of all this, without ever really looking, just as he is aware, without having to go downstairs and look, that the house is empty except for himself, Buckbeak, and Kreacher and will probably remain so until Christmas. Remus has promised to be back for the holiday, but Sirius finds little joy in the promise. He does not doubt Remus’s word, but he hates waiting, and he is tired of it. 

He is in a perpetual state of suspension, he thinks, and stares morosely at his parchment. Neither one thing nor the other. Not strictly a captive since he can leave Britain if he so chooses, but hardly free. Not quite with Remus, since Remus is constantly away on missions for the Order, but not quite without him since they started fucking in August. Harry’s guardian in name only. An Order member in name only. A Black in name only. 

Depressed suddenly, Sirius slams his quill onto the desk, pushes back his chair, and stands. He may as well get drunk, he decides, though it is early. Then he’ll still be here…but not really. If _he_ can wait for everything, so can his letters.

The cold wooden planks of the stairs nip at his bare feet as he thunders down them. If he’s loud enough, maybe Kreacher will hear him and keep out of sight. If he wakes his mother’s portrait with his noise… He decides as he reaches the ground floor that he cannot deal with the old bitch’s shrieks today, so he softens his tread as he moves down the corridor. He considers lighting a fire as he passes the parlor, but decides against it; the temptation to burn the house down would be too great and he doubts anyone would believe him if he claimed it was an accident.

He gets a glass of firewhisky and a plate of cheese and crackers from the pantry, and starts back toward the stairs. As he passes the parlor again he hears what sounds like a soft sigh, and stops because he really had thought the house was empty. Anyone besides Remus would have used the doorbell, and Sirius would have heard that and his mother’s accompanying screams. Remus has a key, but Remus left at dawn.

Curious, Sirius pads across the tattered carpet and glances over the back of the divan that stands by the ornate marble fireplace. A long thin figure in a patched and faded overcoat lies across the cushions. His knees are tucked up to his chest, and his graying light-brown hair spills over the wrists that pillow his head. His eyes are closed, his lips half-parted. He can’t be comfortable on that divan, in that position, but he seems to be asleep.

Sirius feels a knot in his belly loosen, and some of the tension slips from his shoulders. He sets his plate and glass on the mantel, takes his wand from his pocket, and points it at the empty fireplace.

“ _Incendio_.”

Flames ripple upward and cast warmth and light over Remus Lupin’s pale features. He sighs again, and twists against the cushions.

Sirius is at his side in a moment, kneeling on the carpet, and stroking the fine wisps of hair away from his face. Remus moves slightly inside his overcoat, tilts his head back, and blinks sleepily at Sirius.

“Hello.”

“Hello,” echoes Sirius. “What’re you doing down here?”

“Sleeping,” says Remus dryly, but he smiles. “Or trying. My contact wasn’t where she said she’d be. Snow must’ve…” He yawns. “…Scared her off. So, I came back here.”

“Why didn’t you come back to bed?”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Remus says.

“Couldn’t get back to sleep after you left.”

“Oh.”

Sirius is not sure why – he has had too little sleep – but it seems to him that Remus’s quiet, rueful, _oh_ , in some way encapsulates their relationship.

“I should go soon,” Remus says after the silence has stretched for a few moments. “If it’s stopped snowing.”

Sirius considers lying. “It has,” he admits. “It’s still about arse-deep, though.”

Remus raises one eyebrow skeptically. “In London?”

“I’m a Black,” says Sirius blandly. “We’re influential folk.”

“You wanted it to snow?”

“If it keeps you from running off again, yeah.”

Remus smiles again. The corners of his eyes crinkle and the firelight flecks his lashes with gold. “I could stay a bit, if it’s that deep. And if you want me to stay.”

This is a ghost of the conversations they had this summer: _Stay if you like. Only if it’s all right with you. Will you have another orange? Only if it’s not the last one; I don’t want to send you to the greengrocers. Will you be all right on the sofa? Only if I won’t be in your way in the morning. There’s room in my bed for two; will you stay? Only if it’s all right with you…if you want me to…_

So difficult redefining boundaries after so many years, deciding what was allowed and what was now forbidden. It had been an infuriatingly polite summer, even when they _did_ begin sharing a bed.

So Sirius bypasses politeness now and says firmly, “I want you to stay.”

“You want me to skive off work?”

“Yeah,” says Sirius. “And if your contact gets shirty with you later, tell her…tell her…”

“I’ll tell her I was detained,” says Remus.

“Kidnapped,” corrects Sirius. “Captured by the enemy. They held you for hours. And asked you questions.”

“Deep, penetrating questions?”

“Fuck, yeah,” says Sirius as he begins to unbutton Remus’s overcoat. “Why is the sky blue?”

“Why are your eyes so blue?” Remus murmurs.

“How,” asks Sirius, recalling Remus’s collection of Muggle LPs, “many roads must a man walk down before you call him a man?”

“What,” says Remus, raising his eyebrows, “is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?”

“I have no fucking clue,” says Sirius, aware that he is being mocked. He undoes the last button and pushes the coat back from Remus’s slim shoulders. Once Remus’s arms are free, Sirius seizes his wrists and pulls him from the sofa.

It’s awkward; they’ve lost the flexibility and boneless grace of their youth. Remus seems to have grown extra knees and elbows. He lands heavily against Sirius and they are both sent sprawling on the carpet. Sirius lands on his back with a grunt, and holds Remus, who lies limply atop him and laughs softly.

“Doesn’t this make you feel sixteen again?” Sirius inquires, pushing Remus’s hair aside so he can see his eyes.

“ _No_ ,” laughs Remus, turning his head so his cheek rests against Sirius’s chest. “If we were sixteen, that wouldn’t have hurt.”

“So, now you’re injured,” Sirius says. “You can’t possibly leave now, though a few choice bruises might lend credence to the story you give your contact later.”

“I’m _not_ telling her I was captured and tortured for information.”

“Why not?”

“Because… Because…” Remus’s body stops quivering. Sirius feels him close in on himself and he does not like it. “Because,” he says quietly for the third time, “it could really happen, to any of us, and it’s not something to joke about. We’re fighting a war, now.”

“I know,” says Sirius somberly. He tightens his grip on Remus and rests his chin against his head. “Believe me, I haven’t forgotten. Even if I’m not allowed to do anything except keep headquarters tidy…”

“ _Sirius_ …” His voice sounds strained.

“What?” demands Sirius, his bitterness returning. “I’ll do what I’m told, but I don’t have to like it. I don’t have to _pretend_ I like it. Certainly not to you.”

“I wasn’t asking you to pretend,” says Remus flatly. “Just be patient.”

“I _am_ patient,” Sirius grumbles. “I’m still here, aren’t I? I’ve been patient for years. For twelve years—“

“I should go.” Remus puts his hands on the floor and attempts to rise. Sirius pulls him back down.

“Don’t go.”

“But they’re expecting me—“

“No one expects you to do anything in shin-deep snow. And the full moon was only two nights ago.”

“You said it was arse-deep a minute ago,” Remus reminds him chidingly. 

“I lied,” says Sirius quickly. “Don’t go. I don’t want you to go. I can’t sleep while you’re not here. I can’t do anything while you’re not here.” He hears the desperate edge to his voice, and he hates it, but makes no attempt to modulate it. “Please don’t go. If you go…” He touches Remus’s face, tracing his frown with his fingertips, cupping his hollow cheeks between his palms. “Don’t go,” he says. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

“Good dog?” says Remus warily. “I should go, though. You’re all right. Really, Sirius, you are. You’re safe here. It’s warm. And it’s only a little while longer. Things will change, you’ll see.”

All Sirius sees is that Remus is failing to delude even himself. He continues to hold his face, and abruptly Remus breaks off his litany and lowers his lashes. The firelight strikes them again, turning them so bright that Sirius’s eyes ache.

“I have to go,” Remus whispers.

“You don’t have to go anywhere,” Sirius replies in the same hushed tone. “You’re running away from me. As usual.”

Remus’s eyes fly open. “I’m not—“ he starts to protest. Then he sees the look in Sirius’s eyes. 

“Stay,” Sirius pleads. He can’t continue this for very much longer. It’s strange, but it seems he had less shame when he was younger, and handsome, and desirable. After twelve years in Azkaban, with only the battered husk his youth left to him, he’s less willing to beg. If Remus pulls free and rises, Sirius won’t follow him or call after him. He’ll just let him go, and feel wretched. Maybe he _will_ burn down this house. No one can keep him here if here no longer exists.

A strange look crosses Remus’s face, like a cloud across the moon, and he makes a small sound, not of defeat or resignation, but of understanding. His lashes lower again slightly, and the firelight seems to drip off their tips and into his eyes, lighting the brown depths and making them shine. 

“All right,” he says, smiling. “But you have to make it worth my while.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Make it worth my while to stay here. And it has to be better than you’ll be cranky if I leave.”

Sirius smirks. “You’re not in a position to make demands, Moony.”

Remus covers Sirius’s hands with his own. “You’re flat on your back and I’m on top,” he says with a bemused smile. “Seems like a good position to me.”

“I know a better one.” Before Remus can respond, Sirius rolls them over. He straddles Remus’s waist and pins his wrists to the floor above his head. “There,” he says breathlessly. “Now I’m in a position to make demands.”

“You could have done that before,” Remus points out, “when you were trying to convince me to stay.”

“Thank you, Professor Lupin. Now that I’m in this position of power, what shall I do with you?”

“You _were_ undressing me…” Remus reminds him mildly.

“I remember. If I let go of your wrists, though, you might try to make a run for it.”

“I promise I’ll stay.”

“No.” He leans low over Remus and kisses his forehead, so he can’t see his eyes as he says, “No. You’re always promising you’ll stay, but the minute my back is turned, you’re running off on some Order mission. Just for today, I’m keeping you here. I have to keep you safe.” He kisses him again. “And warm.”

“This is rather toasty,” remarks Remus. “But if you’re not going to let go of me so I can so much as scratch my nose, what do you plan on doing with me?”

An excellent question. Sirius rubs Remus’s nose with his own while he thinks of an answer. He’s getting hard, and so, he notices after shifting slightly, is Remus. He doesn’t _really_ expect him to bolt for the door if Sirius gives him the opportunity. He likes having Remus beneath him like this, though, likes knowing that he _can’t_ slip away from him, even if he wants to.

“Tell me a story,” says Remus abruptly.

Sirius is taken by surprise. “A story? What sort of story?”

“I don’t know,” says Remus, shrugging his shoulders as best he can in his position. “It’s just a suggestion. The weather, the fire, you unwilling to use your hands or let me use mine. Or we could—“

“No,” Sirius interrupts, and gives Remus’s wrists a slight squeeze. “No, it’s a good suggestion. I could tell you a story. What sort of story? Not the kind we used to tell Dora when she was a kid…” He wrinkles his nose.

“Only if the fairies involved are you and me,” says Remus dryly. “More like the ones you used to tell me after the full moon. When I felt too tired to go to class. Remember?”

“I remember,” says Sirius vaguely. He remembers doing things for Remus after the full moon: bringing him food from the kitchens, taking down his assignments, telling him jokes. He did those things, he knows. The details were stripped from him in Azkaban, and are now lost. 

He wants to tell Remus that he has no imagination left, no creativity, that even his dreams are full of dull grey prison walls, or the sightless eyes of Dementors. Remus is smiling up at him, though, and his brown eyes are steeped with the things Sirius missed: remote seashores, the last autumn leaves captured and carried away by the wind, paths that could lead anywhere. Deep forests thick with night. Flagons of ale in disreputable taverns. Cracking, leather-bound tomes. Dusky shadows swallowing the moon.

He wants to please Remus, wants to prove to him that he can still do anything. So he forces a smile of his own and says, “All right if it’s a little pervy, this story?”

“It had better be,” Remus answers. 

Sirius licks his lips while he thinks for a moment. 

“What about Kreacher?” asks Remus suddenly, interrupting his thoughts.

“What about the little bugger?”

“What if he walks in on us?”

“Fuck him.”

“Not that sort of pervy, Padfoot.”

Sirius blanches. “He won’t bother us. I haven’t seen him all day. He’s probably off sulking somewhere.” He squeezes Remus’s wrists again. “Forget about him. Do you want this story or not?”

“Tell me your story,” says Remus, with a sigh of resignation.

“Right, then. Once upon a time,” he begins, because isn’t that how Muggle stories begin? “There was this werewolf and this dog Animagus. Gorgeous blokes, these two were, very fit. The Animagus had black hair and blue eyes and a roguish smile.” He flashes Remus his own roguish smile. 

“The werewolf was a little on the thin side, but that was all right. His hair was going a bit grey – which was probably mostly the Animagus’ fault – but he had these long, beautiful hands, and these big, beautiful brown eyes.”

“I’m not _that_ thin,” Remus comments.

“I never said you were,” retorts Sirius. “I said John the werewolf was a bit on the thin side. There’s a line between fiction and reality, love. Try to keep that in mind.”

Remus lifts an eyebrow. “John the werewolf?”

“All right, so,” continues Sirius, beginning to feel more comfortable as he watches his own werewolf’s beautiful eyes. 

“My hands are going numb, Padfoot.”

“Are they?”

“A bit.”

“Can’t have that.” Sirius releases Remus’s wrists and leans back on his heels, straddling Remus’s waist. He takes Remus’s tartan scarf and ties it around his wrists, not so tight that it cuts off circulation, but not so loose that Remus forgets he’s a captive audience. He pushes Remus’s jumper up over his chest and shoulders and bunches it into a makeshift pillow behind his head.

“Comfy?” he inquires, sitting back again.

“Cold,” says Remus.

“I’ll take care of that presently,” Sirius promises. “As I was saying, there’s this dog Animagus and this werewolf. Also, there was this evil Dark wizard, who was trying to take over the world because…that’s just what evil Dark wizards do. So, the dog Animagus and the werewolf – Cyon and John – are part of this secret society and they’re trying to fight against the evil Dark wizard.”

Sirius remembers Remus’s admonition about making light of their situation, so he draws the next part of his tale from dim memories of the wizard comics Remus read when they were kids. “One day they’re on a mission, and they’re caught by the evil Dark wizard’s henchmen. They’re brought to a dungeon and the henchmen are bored and a bit stupid, so they make them perform all these sexual acts for their entertainment.”

Remus smiles. “These sexual acts,” he muses softly, “are they properly deviant at least, or more run of the mill shagging?”

Sirius leans over Remus and props his chin up on his knuckles. “They’re not all _that_ imaginative, or even proper shagging because everyone knows that if the villains knew anything about proper sex they wouldn’t be half as cranky and vindictive.

“What they do,” he explains, “is quite torturous. Because they force Cyon and John to have sex, but they’re not allowed to take off their clothes, see. They’re only allowed to touch each other. At first. And if they try anything hot and heavy, they’ll get zapped.”

Sirius moves his free hand over Remus’s chest, brushing the sparse hairs, before catching one nipple and rubbing it gently between his thumb and forefinger.

“It’s a bit like this, in fact. At first.”

Remus inhales deeply and arches his chest. “As torture goes, this isn’t so bad. It’s rather nice, actually. So, what happens next?”

“Next?” Sirius continues to play with Remus’s nipple while he thinks. Remus is clearly tired, and Sirius does not want to exhaust him, but this is pleasant enough.

“All right,” he says after a moment. He shifts so that he is bracing himself on both elbows. He slides his fingers into Remus’s hair and rubs his temples with the pads of his thumbs. “Next they decide that not only can’t they take off their clothes, but they can only ever touch in one place at a time. So for example, if Cyon had his hands in John’s hair – much the way mine are in yours – no other part of their bodies could be touching. But it still has to be sexual.”

He climbs to his knees and raises his body above Remus’s, tossing his hair so that it’s out of his way. Then he lowers his mouth so that it’s barely an inch above Remus’s skin, and begins to breathe over his chest and throat. Slow, hot, steady breaths.

“So, they have to resort to something like this,” he murmurs.

“Hmm,” says Remus, the corners of his smile deepening. “I can see how this might become torturous. If this is all they’re allowed to do.” He blinks. “Tell me there’s more to this story than that. It seems a shame, for such nice, upstanding wizards as Cyon and John.”

“Well, that’s just the thing,” Sirius says with a teasing grin. “Nothing gets under Dark wizards’ skin like nice, upstanding blokes having hot sex. And the Dark wizards aren’t allowed to shag,” he improvises quickly, “because of this curse their master has them under. To make sure they’re obedient he has to make sure they’re always cranky and mean. So he’s placed this curse on them that if they ever get off with someone else, their goolies’ll turn green and fall off like apples. And that is something they want to avoid. Understandably.”

“Goolies?” Remus laughs.

“Goolies,” says Sirius calmly. “You know, these?” He breaks the story’s rule briefly to cup Remus’s balls. “So,” he continues briskly, “the henchmen can only get their kicks by watching good, upstanding blokes get off. But because they’re bad, they won’t allow them a proper shag. Which is just as well,” he says, leaning in slightly, and putting just a little more pressure on Remus, who squirms pleasurably. “Because John’s had a bit of an ordeal lately, and Cyon doesn’t want to wear them out before they can make their escape.”

He raises his lips and continues to breathe his way down Remus’s half-naked body. He lingers over Remus’s nipples and navel. He breathes over the waistband of his trousers, then lower, around the growing bulge.

Remus’s laughter rings around him like music. _Good_ , he thinks as he breaks his rule again to kiss Remus’s belly. _Oh, that’s good. If I can make him laugh like this, he’ll stay. At least for the night, he’ll stay._

“So, getting back to my story,” says Sirius. “Cyon’s only allowed to touch John in one place.” He lifts his lips, but keeps his hand between Remus’s legs. “And it still has to be sexual. Meanwhile, the henchmen are getting horny, but they’re not allowed to do anything about it, or their nadges’ll turn green and drop off.”

Remus’s face is flushed, his hair, cheeks, and shoulders alight in the fire’s glow, and his legs and belly are quivering with amusement and desire. He spreads his legs wider, invitingly, and it’s all Sirius can do to keep himself from breaking off his story and pouncing. 

“Fortunately for our heroes,” he goes on with some determination, “John’s a bit smarter than Cyon. He manages to keep his wits about him, even in this most dire of circumstances.”

John may have his wits about him, but Remus is half-gone, Sirius thinks.

“He’s hardly moved as I – Cyon, rather – breathes over his beautiful body...”

Sirius leans up and breaths up and down Remus’s ribs. 

“…but he’s been thinking. And he’s come up with a plan. He watches what Cyon’s doing. And at a certain point he begins to thrust. Very gently so he won’t wear himself out because he _is_ knackered, but…enough. And he lets out this moan, and it’s the most erotic thing you’ve ever heard.”

Remus moans and pushes against Sirius’s hand.

“As a matter of fact, it _was_ rather like that,” Sirius murmurs, pleased. He rubs the Remus’s erection through his trousers. “So, John has this plan. He’s been hatching it all the while Cyon’s been getting him off. He starts off really slowly, like I said, just thrusting and moaning until he has the henchmen _enthralled_.”

He doesn’t dare look at Remus’s face, certain that if he does, he’ll be the one enthralled. “John’s a werewolf, as you know, and has an ultra-keen sense of smell. He knows when the henchmen are just about at their limit. Once he knows that, he gives another tremendous moan, and does something that makes Cyon forget all about his stupid bloody rules.”

Sirius feels Remus’s hands in his hair, and knows it was wise not to bind his wrists too tightly. The hands pull him up and into a kiss, the first they’ve shared since last night, and Sirius swallows Remus’s breath and his groan that is almost a growl. Their groins nudge together, sending jolts through Sirius’s frame. He rotates his hips with tantalizing slowness and lets Remus suck on his lower lip for a few moments before he pulls back and says, “Don’t you want to hear how it ends?”

Remus stares up at him, eyes full of firelight and bewilderment. Sirius kisses him quickly, and smiles. They are both panting now. Neither has the strength to prolong this; they need their release soon.

“So,” Sirius resumes, “John does something astonishingly similar to what you just did, and the henchmen just can’t take it anymore. They grab each other and start shagging. Naturally, this triggers the curse. Their knackers turn bright green and fall off. They roll right down their trouser legs and onto the floor, and they roll across the floor like billiard balls. The henchmen are pretty put out by this, as you can well imagine. They chase after their balls, but they’re clumsier than Tonks, so they trip on them and fall and knock themselves unconscious.

“This is just the moment John and Cyon have been waiting for. They run out of the dungeon, and there they find Cyon’s faithful motorbike waiting for them. They climb on board and they fly away, back to headquarters.

“And then,” he concludes huskily, “they finish what they started.”

He pushes against Remus, harder this time, pressing him into the carpet. He lowers his mouth to Remus’s throat, kissing the pulse, then begins to suck on the soft skin, thrusting gently all the while and running his hands up and down Remus’s naked sides. Remus bucks against him and whimpers throatily, his hands sliding up Sirius’s jumper to claw his back and shoulders, then stroke soothingly as their lips meet and their tongues push together.

 _Stay with me_ , thinks Sirius as his thrusts become harder and less steady. _Stay with me_. His silent litany changes as something deep within him catches fire and flares from his core to the tips of his fingers and toes. “Come with me,” he groans against Remus’s lips. “Come with me, Moony. Come…”

Remus cries out sharply and stiffens, and a moment later the flood overtakes Sirius as well. They sag together, breathless and sweaty, and it’s some time before either has the strength to speak.

At length, Remus says raggedly, as he runs a hand through Sirius’s damp, tangled hair, “It’s a shame John and Cyon had to return to headquarters. John probably wishes he could have taken Cyon away somewhere. Someplace warm and beautiful, where the snow isn’t shin-deep.”

“It’s more like ankle-deep,” Sirius admits drowsily. “And it doesn’t matter. Cyon isn’t fit to be seen in public.”

“No,” agrees Remus, pulling Sirius’s hair away from his neck and stroking the soft skin underneath. “But he’s fit for private use, and that’s fine since the public doesn’t deserve him.” His other arm steals around Sirius’s back and holds him close.

“You’ll stay?” whispers Sirius.

“I’ll stay,” says Remus. “I’ll contact Jones via Floo later. It wasn’t that urgent. I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

Sirius wants to tell Remus that he always needs him, that however long he stays, Sirius is always twice as lonely when he leaves, that if it weren’t for Harry Sirius would beg Remus to run away with him, to go anyplace where their names mean nothing and they can live as anonymously as two people wholly engrossed in each other should be allowed to live. But it would be unfair, he knows. The Order of the Phoenix gives Remus a sense of purpose that was missing from his life for nearly fifteen years. 

So they lie together on the tattered carpet beside the fireplace, and as their heartbeats slow, Sirius begins to hear the wind outside Number Twelve, rattling the tree branches and moving across the shallow snow like a curtain. The cold and the years and the ugly house and the regrets curl around them like fingers, and Sirius knows they are only clinging together in the palm of fate, and that there is little either can do.

But Remus murmurs, sounding as though he is on the brink of sleep, “I still love you, Sirius. I never stopped. Really never. I’ll never stop.” And just for a moment Sirius feels fate’s hand fall open like a flower; the years flow around this truth and the house’s walls scurry away from them like frightened animals. 

Sirius feels like a candle. Burning at both ends, perhaps, and malleable in Remus’s hands, or in anyone’s hands. But burning, at least, and alight, and alive.

10/30/04


End file.
